


Skylark

by Maamilton, unshakespearean (InimitableLia)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Asshole Jefferson, Based on a True Story, Islamophobia, Nuclear Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6315121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maamilton/pseuds/Maamilton, https://archiveofourown.org/users/InimitableLia/pseuds/unshakespearean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex was just going to get burgers with his best friend Aaron, the way they always did when they had good grades to celebrate, but their evening is interrupted by an argument at a nearby booth, commencing in a bet from his friend with ice cream at stake: chat up the cute boy who just stood up to the bigoted douchebag and get digits.<br/>Being roped into a "ragtag activist trio" working to prevent a major nuclear weapons research facility from setting up shop nearby was most decidedly not part of that bet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and Aaron celebrate good grades in an act of brohood, but brohood is interrupted by an ass named Thomas Jefferson—and a cute guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the letter P, the number 27, and both writers. Chapter summary and AN at the end brought to you by Lia (we're going to take turns with that part).

Alex grinned broadly to himself as he left seventh-period calculus, his latest, graded test in hand. Last period, debate team practice after school and—

“—Well?”

Alex turned around—and looked up—to see Aaron Burr, his best friend. Aaron was holding a piece of paper in his hand as well—for him, it was a physics test.

“On three,” said Alex. “Yeah?”

Aaron grinned and nodded. “One, two, three—”

“—Ninety-three,” Alex said, while Aaron said “ninety-four-point-five.”

“Yessss,” Alex said. “Oh, wait—crap, now I have to pay, don’t I…”

“Nah, we can split. A point and a half isn’t bad,” said Aaron. “Now hurry, or we’ll be late for debate and the KGB will _kill_ us.”  _The KGB_ wasn’t a Russian force, but rather, “the King George Bitchface,” that is, George Frederick, the debate team captain.

“Think I can beat Seabury?” Alex asked.

“You always do,” Aaron replied, shrugging. “Or, you would, if George weren’t _biased_.” The two shared a laugh. Biased was a nice way of putting it… or rather, a very polite way of putting it.

“Well, we’ll see how it goes,” said Alex. “Come on.”

~~~~~~~

_End of debate practice (5pm)_

Alex strode out of practice, looking smug. Aaron followed a few feet behind, grumbling, “You won a _practice match_ , Alexander, not the state championships.”

“So what?” Alex replied, not about to let his good mood be dampened by his friend’s sour one. “I did better than you,” he smirked.

Aaron rolled his eyes and shot back, “Oh, well if you’re that great, I suppose I’ll let you pay tonight." His lips curled into a smirk even as the identical expression left Alex’s face.

“You wouldn’t,” Alex responded, only half joking.

“Wouldn’t I?”

Alex deflated. “Fine, I’ll pay.”

Aaron let the smile on his face soften into a laugh. “I’m only joking, Alex.”

“I know,” he responded, sounding a bit too defensive for someone who supposedly hadn’t just been mentally checking their wallet’s contents.

“Mmmhmm.”

“Shut up, Aaron.”

They had begun walking as they spoke, and now the restaurant, a small burger-and-wing place which was popular among the students, was in sight. They had a running tradition, which had its beginnings not long after they met, according to which any time Alex received an A on a math test (his worst subject) or Burr received an A on a science test (his worst subject) they would go to that restaurant for burgers. Both of their grades had gone up thanks to the tradition, and the burgers were _damn good_.

“After you, Mr. Burr, sir,” said Alex, holding the door open for his friend.

“Thank you, Alexander.” Another tradition: Alex’s frequent rhyme of “Burr, sir.” It was, admittedly, rather amusing, and maybe even a little sweet, but it was also annoying as all hell. Win some, lose some.

They walked up to the hostess station to see a familiar face. “Evening, Miss Schuyler,” said Aaron, beaming.

“Burr, you disgust me,” said the hostess, but she gave him a smile. “Hey, Alex.”

“Hey, Angelica,” said Alex. “Your sister working this evening?”

“Yeah, but so’s Maria,” said Angelica with a knowing smile. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I’ve long given up,” said Alex. “Elizabeth Schuyler is one of the most beautiful ladies I’ve ever met— _one of_ —but she’s completely out of my league.”

“Damn straight,” said Angelica. “Peggy’s here too; it’s xyr first night!”

“Ooooh, congratulations!” Alex said brightly.

“Tell xem that; I’ll seat you in xyr section. Just you two?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Aaron.

“Right this way, then,” said Angelica.

When they got to their table, Peggy was already there. “Hey there!” xe said brightly. “I’m Peggy and I’ll be your server this evening. Can I start you off with—oh, hi Alex! I didn’t even realize it was you!”

Alex laughed. “Hey Peggy. Congrats on your first night on the job. And I'm good with water, thanks.”

“No, he’s not,” said Aaron. “Two lemonades—Alexander don’t you dare protest.”

“Aaron—”

“We both got kickass grades; we’re going all out and I’ll pay. You deserve it.”

“Aaron—”

“Alexander. Shut. Up. Peggy, we would love two lemonades and an order of wings.”

“Alex, you should listen to him,” Peggy chastised. “You should take a break once in awhile.”

“You Schuylers are all the same,” Alex muttered.

“You know it,” Peggy smirked. Xe poked Alex’s shoulder and left.

“Aaron, you really don't—” Alexander was cut off by a loud remark from a nearby booth.

A boy their age, cheeks flushed beneath a smattering of freckles, was gesturing wildly at one of his tablemates, who sat in such a way that all Alex or Aaron could see was a dark afro. “That's just not true!”

“I'm just repeating what I've heard,” the other boy shot back defensively. Alex had to strain his ears to hear him continue, “Not like it's that far from the truth.”

Another of the group chimed in in a heavy French accent, “How would you like it if I said that obviously the Westboro Baptist Church proves that all Baptists were terrorists?”

“But that's not true,” the boy with the afro replied.

“Exactly! Thomas, that's what we’re trying to say!” said the other two in unison.

“Look,” Thomas said, indicating a student as they walked through the entrance and turned to speak to Angelica. He had a turban wrapped around his head, but otherwise, he didn't look particularly out of the ordinary. “He's probably up to no good.”

The other two remained silent, glaring at him. They turned away, waving the boy with the turban over. “Thomas, meet our _friend_ , Hercules. Herc, this is Thomas.” Thomas blanched as he was introduced. He swallowed, hard, and gruffly greeted him. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Herc raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. He sat down in the open seat between the freckled boy and Thomas. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“What a douche,” Alex whispered to Aaron.

“Who?”

“The guy with the afro.”

“Oh.”

Alex raised an eyebrow at Aaron. “Why, who else would I be calling a douche?”

Aaron realized his implication and bit his lip. There was a brief silence, but thankfully, Peggy showed up with their lemonades.

“Your wings will be out soon,” xe said.

“Thanks, Peggy.” Aaron raised his glass. “Cheers?”

Deciding for once that an argument with Aaron wasn’t worth ruining their celebration—but really, it was about the free food—Alex grinned and raised his glass as well. “Cheers. To brohood.”

“And to good grades.”

“Hell yeah.”

They were nearly finished with their wings when loud conversation broke out again at the booth. “Okay, I’ve had enough,” said the boy with the freckles. “Jefferson, if you can’t go five minutes without making some kind of rude comment or saying something insulting to Herc, then you should just leave.”

“It’s a free country!” the afro boy— _so his name is Thomas Jefferson,_ Alex mused—shouted. “I can say whatever I want, and if he doesn’t like it, maybe _he_ should leave.”

“Please stop fighting,” Hercules begged. “It’s not worth it—”

The boy with the freckles interrupted him. “Hercules Mulligan, I swear if you say _it’s not worth it_ one more time—”

“—John—” _So his name is John._

“—Listen to your friend,” said Jefferson. Alex was immediately sickened by his Southern drawl. “Why fight the truth?”

“Excuse me, but what is going on here?” The conversation at the booth stopped when Eliza Schuyler—Angelica and Peggy’s sister—marched up to the booth and stood over them. “Actually, never mind. I have received no fewer than three separate complaints about the noise here, so I’ll let you explain to the owner what’s going on.”

“Oh, this’ll be good,” Alex whispered to Aaron. “No one fucks with Martha.” Indeed, Martha Washington, the owner of the restaurant, was someone to fear. She tolerated no nonsense, especially the sort that involved bigotry—partly, Alex assumed, because she had faced so much herself. And yet, she’d come up on top as one of the first black women to solely own and operate a restaurant in the area. She was a _figure_ , a permanent part of the local culture, and everyone in the area with any sort of decency knew to respect her—and love her. Despite her toughness and Impressive Ability to Not Take Others’ Sh—enanigans™, or perhaps because of it, she was also a mother figure to everyone who worked for her.

Alex adored her.

“Surprised Eliza’s not going to Adrienne first,” Aaron mused. “She’s the manager and all.”

“Yes, but Adrienne’s a foreigner. I have a feeling Thomas Jefferson wouldn’t listen to her.”

“Hmmm, maybe. Oooh, here comes Martha.” Alex craned his neck to get a better look.

Even if one had never spoken with Martha before, one look at her told most people not to mess with her. She was tall, taller than most women, curvy, her dark hair pulled back into a neat bun. “Now, what is going on here?” she asked.

Although Jefferson didn't say anything, as he turned his head to the side Alex could see it written plainly on his face. _I know I'm right. She'll sort it out._

Martha had barely opened her mouth, a stern expression wrinkling the space between her eyebrows, when Jefferson interrupted, trying to look innocent and making it clear that that guise did not come easily to him. “You seem like a reasonable woman. My friends here invited this… _person_ ,” he indicated Hercules with disdain, “into your _lovely_ establishment. Would you kindly invite him back out?” By the end of his short speech, Jefferson had abandoned his attempt to look innocent and instead was smirking smugly, sure he had already won.

“And why would I do that?” Martha replied, arching an eyebrow.

Jefferson’s face fell a little when Martha didn't instantly comply, but he still looked self-assured as he replied, “Well, his sort of people aren't the sort you'd want around.”

Martha went from mildly irritated to angry in the space of a heartbeat, brow furrowing and jaw clenching. She looked like she might punch Thomas, but held back and settled for a smoldering glare that could melt steel. He shrugged it off, muttering under his breath how he “wouldn't expect _her kind_ to know how to treat customers.”

She heard—he wasn't exactly trying to hide it—and visibly restrained herself, veins in her neck bulging. When he looked up, however, her expression had gone flat.

“Mr…”

“Thomas. Thomas Jefferson.”

“Right. Mr. Thomas, _honey_ , do you like the desserts here?”

“Yeah. I get them all the time. I'm a paying customer, although the money I give to this place evidently doesn't mean much to you.”

“Yes, and Hercules makes them. On weekends, Hercules is in charge of all of the desserts. I haven’t seen you work here a day in your life, so I don’t think you have the right to call yourself more valuable to this establishment than our staff. Now, we reserve the right to refuse service to,” she cleared her throat pointedly, “ _your kind,_ so you would do us a great favor by leaving this establishment.”

Eliza returned, carrying a broom, as Thomas stood to defend himself, looking more embarrassed than indignant. As he opened his mouth to protest, Martha took the broom from Eliza and hit Thomas on the back of his calves, quite literally sweeping him towards the door.

“You can't do this, lady! I'm a paying customer! I'll never come back here again!”

“That's fine with me,” Martha replied with strained calm, sweeping at him again.

As he left, swept out the door before he could say much more, the three that remained at the table stood to give Martha a standing ovation, and the rest of the restaurant, which had gone quiet to watch the spectacle, soon followed suit.

In the midst of the noise, Alex turned back to Aaron. “I'm going to head over and say hi,” he said, glancing at the freckled boy.

Aaron took a look at the freckled boy—John, he believed—and rolled his eyes, knowing instantly what was going on in Alex’s mind. He was in no way into guys—he and his girlfriend, Theodosia, had been going out steadily since sophomore year—but he knew that Alexander was, and John was not only objectively cute, but also had just stood up to a bigot, which to Alex was almost an even bigger turn-on.

“Feeling the brohood, man,” Aaron teased, taking a sip of his lemonade.

Alex instantly felt bad. “Aaron—”

“—I’m kidding. Go chat up your new hero, tomcat—”

“—don’t _call_ me that—”

“—and take your phone with you. I’ll text you when the burgers arrive, and if you have digits by then, ice cream’s on me. If not, ice cream’s on you.”

 _Oh, fuck_ , Alex thought.

“Tick tock, Alexander,” Aaron half-sang.

“Aaron Burr, I hate you,” Alex muttered, and he grabbed his phone, stood up, and began walking towards the booth.

He was nearly there when the impossible happened: a woman at a nearby table pushed out her chair and Alex tripped over the leg. He tripped and was about to do a face-plant on the floor when—

“—Whoa!”

And suddenly he was being held up by John, staring up at his hazel eyes and constellations of freckles, faces inches apart.

“Are you alright?”

Alex was speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, Lia here! That was the first chapter of Skylark; hope you enjoyed! I can't promise you any sort of regular update schedule, but I can promise that this story will be written and completed, as will Rochambeau, so no worries there!  
> A few fun facts about this story: first off, you may have noticed in the tags that this is based on a true story, and it is! I happen to be a passionate peace activist with a strong anti-nuke focus, and the current anti-nuke sect of my local peace movement is up in non-arms about a research facility parked in our backyard. A lot of the details surrounding the company in this story is thus based on the one in my life! Also, if you're wondering why "Impressive Ability to Not Take Others Sh—enanigans" has a trademark symbol, it's because I coined the phrase and even though trademarking phrases isn't actually a thing, I figured I would do it anyway. The phrase, by the way, is an acronym, and folks well-versed in my other stories and interests in general will understand what exactly that acronym references!  
> Huge thanks my cowriter Caroline for writing this with me, to my Global Zero team (GZ being an anti-nukes organization), to my friends Abel and Mike for doing extensive research on the IRL research facility, and to my dad for giving me the idea to turn my activism efforts into a fanfic!  
> As always, love and ducks to the Lone Shippers, hugs to supporters, thanks to everyone mentioned as well as Eleonora, Noe, Hanul, and Kizzie, shoutouts to my siblings, and cookies for all! Bye guys! —Lia xxxx


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Alex recover from his stumble? Will he find out what John and that asshole guy were fighting about? More importantly, will he get digits and win his bet with Aaron? Read on to find out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the letter F, the number 13, and Lia. Summary and AN also brought to you by Lia.

Alex blinked up at John, trying to regain the use of his voice. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine,” he stammered. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” John helped him up. “What’re you doing over here?”

“Oh, um, I wanted to say hi.” Alex’s heart raced as he realized exactly how weird this sounded. “I heard you taking down that guy before Martha came in, and you seemed pretty cool—you and your friends—”

“Well, come on over! What’s your name?”

“Alexander Hamilton,” said Alex. “You can call me Alex if you want.”

“John. John Laurens.”

_ That  _ was a name he knew. “Laurens—Laurens as in the state senator?”

“He’s my father,” John replied. “Why, d’you—”

_ Yes, and I can’t fucking stand him.  _ “I know of him,” Alex replied, choosing his words carefully. “I wouldn’t say I agree with him politically… at all… but—”

“—You can say it,” said John.

“Say what?”

“That my father’s a douchebag.”

“I mean—”

“—Alexander, I say it to myself every single day. Trust me, I don’t care, and neither do my friends.”

“In that case, yes.”

“Who’ve you got there, John?” The boy with the turban—Hercules—looked up as John and Alex approached the table.

“Alexander Hamilton, meet Hercules Mulligan and this lovely fellow, who has a very long, very French name commencing with Lafayette, and we tend to leave it at that, mainly because they hate their full name. Oh yeah, and in case it wasn’t glaringly obvious already, they use they/them pronouns. Herc, Laf, this is Alexander ‘You-Can-Call-Me-Alex-If-You-Want’ Hamilton.”

“Got it.” Alex grinned and shook everyone’s hand.

“Have a seat, Alex,” Hercules offered, scooting over in the booth closer to Lafayette. Alex grinned and sat down, putting his phone on the table.

“Sorry for being so incredibly rude as to have my phone on the table,” said Alex. “My friend said he’d text me when our burgers arrive.”

“Ah, no worries,” said John.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what exactly got you guys arguing with that asshole?”

“Yeah, what was that all about?” Hercules asked.

“We were talking about Strauss-Nierenberg,” John explained.

“Strauss what?” Alex asked.

John looked at him with huge eyes.  _ “You don’t know about Strauss-Nierenberg?”  _ he asked incredulously.

“Here we go,” Lafayette sighed, rolling their eyes.

“SN is a research company,” John explained. From the looks on his friends’ faces, he had said this many times. “From the research I’ve done, they’re good people for the most part, based over in California. They give local engineering students jobs and internships and stuff like that, great facilities, blah blah blah. Trouble is, they just accepted a two billion dollar contract from the Pentagon to work on research for the Trident missile, and because they don’t have the space in their California facility to do that research, they want to come over here. There’s a building here in the city, maybe about a mile from here, that the city’s considering giving them a ten-year lease for 1.6 million dollars, which to SN is nothing of course since they have two billion dollars to blow from the Pentagon and sponsorship from God only knows who, but to the city it’s a huge chunk of change for a warehouse they don’t use. ‘Course, it’s probably going to go to tax loopholes or some shit like that, and that’s a completely different can of worms, but the point is, there’s so much more to be considered than just the rent, that the city council doesn’t even think about—like the fact that our city is about to become the home of a nuclear weapons research facility, thereby openly breaking a decades-old international treaty—Alexander, you know about—”

“—The NPT, yeah, I know—”

“—and if the fact that our city, New York City, home of the  _ United Nations, _ is going to host a violation of that treaty, isn’t the most disgusting and hypocritical thing you’ve ever heard of, I have no idea what is.”

“Hypocritical, yes, and painfully ironic. Disgusting… I mean, there is Donald Trump to consider.”

Alex tried to stay smooth, make a joke (and, if his companions’ laughter was anything to go by, it was a good joke), but the fact was, he was almost spellbound by John’s words. For the past three years, he’d been looking for someone to share ideas with—a fellow activist. And here that activist was, passionate and dedicated and with identical opinions to Alex’s—and he was cute.

As the laughter died down, Alex found himself feeling oddly comfortable with these people he had only just met.  “Okay, but I’m still confused about something,” said Alex. “How did talking about Strauss-Nierenberg lead to that dick guy being a dick?”

“Jefferson is pro-SN,” said John, “because…” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“I’ve heard it all, bro,” Hercules muttered. “You know I don’t care.”

“I get it,” Alex said quickly. Well, he was pretty sure he got it.

“And you do care, Herc,” John said, rubbing Hercules’s arm. “And you have every right to.”

“I mean, I don’t even practice—”

“—It’s your heritage, bro; you deserve to be just as proud of it as you are of being… what did you call it?”

“The world’s most unlikely leprechaun.”

“That’s the one.” John beamed at Hercules, and Alex was struck with the thought that he might really like to be the recipient of that smile at some point—and then John’s face darkened. “Jefferson is a douche.” Lafayette opened their mouth to protest. “Yes, he is, Laf. I still don’t understand why you—”

“—Because he taught me English—”

“—dude, that was  _ years  _ ago. Trust me, he’s either long forgotten it, or, more likely, is using—”

Lafayette shook their head. “John, please—you’ve said it a thousand times—”

“—because it’s  _ true— _ Herc, back me up here—”

“John, enough,” Hercules said softly.

“Oh, come on—”

“ _ —Enough _ .”

John sighed and took a sip of his soda. “Oh—Alexander—sorry you had to see that—”

“No, it’s cool,” said Alex. Now he knew for a fact that he hated Thomas Jefferson. That was always fun. “Back to Strauss-Nierenberg… are you guys doing anything to stop it?”

“I wish,” John sighed. “I can’t think of anything we can do, though. I won’t be registered to vote for another month and I have no idea when city council is going to actually have the hearing… I’m not really an activist, is the thing. I wish I were; I wish I did more, but honestly the most I’ve ever done is gone to a few rallies.”

“That’s better than most people,” Alex said comfortingly.

“Thanks, Alexander.” And suddenly Alex was on the receiving end of that beautiful smile, and the words fell from his lips before he could think about them.

“Let’s work together,” he said. “The four of us. I bet if we work together, we can totally stop them. I mean, isn’t that how it always works? It starts with a couple of losers who want something to happen and suddenly they rise up and change the world. That’s it, I’m doing it. This is my shot at doing something amazing, and I am not throwing it away. Who’s with me?”

The other three stared at him in silence for a moment.

“Let’s get this guy in front of a crowd,” John laughed. “I’m with you all the way, Alexander.” And there was that smile again, the one that literally looked like sunshine.

And then Alex’s phone buzzed.

“Oh—oh, crap, that’s my friend,” he said. “Our burgers must be here. I have to go, but maybe we can exchange emails?”  _ Maybe I can get Aaron to buy his own ice cream… _

“Sure, give me your phone,” said John. He was still smiling, but there was something else behind it, like mischief.

When Alex’s phone was returned to him, it had a new contact:  _ John Laurens,  _ his email—and his number.

“Hope you don’t mind,” John said with a grin. “Of course, you should probably go, or your burger will get cold. I guess you’ll have to give me your number later.”

Alex’s face turned bright red. “Oh—okay, I will! Thank you! Bye!” He ran off before he could embarrass himself further.

“So, did you get it?” Aaron asked when Alex returned to the table.

“In the weirdest and best way possible,” Alex said proudly.

“Gonna leave him hanging?”

“Hell yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends, Lia here! Sorry for taking so long; I promise more will be here soon!  
> A quick announcement: Caroline has decided to step down as a coauthor of this story and live happily as my Supreme Beta. I will make sure to give her credit for her genius ideas when such is due, and I hope you all give her equal appreciation for this story as you give to me. <3  
> Alright, pretty sure that's all for now! As always, love and ducks to the Lone Shippers, hugs to supporters, thanks to Eleonora, Noe, Hanul, and Kizzie, shoutouts to my siblings, and cookies for all!  
> Love,  
> Lia xxxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander emails John and John wants to read it... but Laurens family drama gets in the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Henry Laurens appears in this chapter. This chapter also includes body shaming and emotional abuse/mentions of it/etc. If you would rather not read the chapter, that is totally fine. Please, by all means, feel free to send me a message via Tumblr (inimitablelia or unshakespearean) and I will send you a summary of the chapter without including Henry.  
> This chapter was brought to you by the letter H and the number 42.

That night, John continuously checked his phone, hoping for a text from Alexander, but none came. _It’s not a big deal,_ he told himself. _We only just met._

But by the time he went to bed, he couldn’t help but feel sad. He had hoped that Alex really was going to help him take down Strauss-Nierenberg… but no.

The next morning, however, he was greeted with an email.

_Regarding Strauss-Nierenberg_

_From: Alexander Hamilton_ _2:03 AM (5 hours ago)_

“Holy shit,” John muttered. “Who the fuck sends emails at 2am?”

_Dear John,_

_First of all, my humblest apologies for not texting you before now. As soon as I arrived home, I began researching ways to address the absolute atrocity our fine state faces shortly. Luckily for us, there are quite a few ways to go about this…_

The email seemed never-ending, so long that John couldn’t read the whole thing. From what he had been able to skim, however, it was evident that Alexander had done his homework, and John couldn’t be happier.

His alarm broke his combination of reading and reverie. Time for breakfast.

He went downstairs and was greeted by one of the sweetest sights he knew: his two sisters, Mattie and Mary, making breakfast. Well, it would be sweet, if it weren’t for the fact that his sisters were always required to make breakfast because that was “women’s work,” according to their father.

“Morning,” John said brightly.

“John!” Five-year-old Mary jumped down from her stool and hurtled towards him.

“Good morning!” John laughed. He picked her up and swung her around, smiling slightly as she began to giggle incessantly.

“Do I not get any love, brother dear?” fourteen-year-old Mattie asked, still at the stove. She turned and poked her tongue out at John.

“I would, but my arms are full,” John explained. “Sorry.”

“Ah, alright,” Mattie sighed.

“What’s for breakfast?” John asked, putting Mary down.

“PANCAKES!” she squealed happily.

“Hey, no shouting,” John chastised gently. “You know that’s not allowed.”

“But _pancakes,_ ” Mary whined.

John sighed inwardly. “I know, I know, but we still can’t shout in the house.”

Suddenly, they heard footsteps—tiny, running footsteps—through the hall. John’s two brothers, Jemmy and Henry Junior, appeared in the doorway. “Who said pancakes?” nine-year-old Junior demanded.

“I did!” Mary grinned.

Seven-year-old Jemmy bounced up and down. “Yes! Mattie and Emmy make the _best_ pancakes!”

John couldn’t help but giggle. He still remembered the day that the boys had decided to start calling Mary “Emmy,” a play on her initials—M.E. for Mary Eleanor. Junior, the one who had actually come up with the nickname, had just been learning to read and write at the time, and even though he was perfectly capable of saying “Mary Eleanor” at that point, Jemmy was still having trouble in that department, and “Emmy” was far easier. Somehow, the name had managed to stick. Even John and Mattie occasionally called her Emmy for fun, although usually they just stuck to Mary. Her full name, Mary Eleanor, was, as an unspoken but explicit rule, avoided entirely by the kids. That was what their father called her.

“Go on and set the table,” John instructed. “Quickly, before—” a look from Mattie caused him to shut his mouth. Slowly, nervously, he turned around.

“—before that happens,” he muttered.

“Good morning,” said Henry Laurens senior. John had always associated his voice with ice, the sort of ice that never melted and was cold enough to burn the skin.

“Good morning, Father,” the children chorused.

“Why isn’t the table set?” Henry demanded. “You know my expectation is that the table is set when I come downstairs—”

“—It’s my fault,” Jemmy said, tiny hands trembling. “I took too long to get dressed.”

“And you made Junior wait, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Henry loomed over Jemmy and it was obvious that the seven-year-old was about to cry. “I’m guessing Junior got dressed perfectly quickly, and you made him wait. Why can’t you be more like him, hm?”

“Father, please,” Mattie begged. “Just… boys, go set the table and let’s have breakfast. Go on. We have pancakes for breakfast and they’re going to be delicious, so let’s not have a fight.”

 _Mattie, no!_ John thought to himself. Now their father would be mad at her, for interrupting. There was only one person who could stop him. He looked over at Junior, his father’s favorite, the one who never got scolded and could perhaps get his father to listen.

And also the only one who hated John.

Thankfully, Junior did love Mattie—everyone did. A few quick hand signals—much to their ableist father’s chagrin, they had all learned ASL so as to communicate with a Deaf cousin, although what really angered their father was when Mattie started using it to communicate with John when he was nonverbal, because heaven forbid anyone actually acknowledge that John was autistic—anyway, a few quick hand signals and Junior was begging their father to stop. Jemmy had already set the table, they said grace, and then they ate breakfast far too quietly for a Saturday morning.

“Jack, I need to speak with you alone,” Henry said suddenly, his voice a blade in the silence.

“Okay,” John replied, quietly biting back the protest bubbling forwards at the nickname. “Like, now, or after breakfast—”

“—Now.”

Henry led John into a private corner. John held onto the nearby table to steady himself, heart racing.

“Eleanor emailed me.”

“If you mean my mother, her name is Elena,” John snapped. He was so sick and tired of his father’s erasing his mother’s heritage. He hated that as soon as his father threw his mother out, he changed Mary’s name from Mary Elena to Mary Eleanor and told Mary that that was her mother’s name, told the others that if they didn’t call her Eleanor, didn’t join him in erasing their own Puerto Rican roots, they would face consequences. He hated that when his mother was thrown out, Henry didn’t allow her to take her precious Torah, instead burning it in front of her and calling her a filthy sinner.

He hated that all of it was, in a way partially his fault.

_It all started John was 12. His mother, while forbidden to talk about her religion in front of his father, still talked to John about Judaism in secret, and he had always been far more intrigued by Judaism than by Christianity._

_“Why do I even have to be Christian?” John had asked her in frustration one day._

_And that was when Elena took the greatest risk of her lifetime:_

_“You don’t have to be. In fact, most would say that because I, your mother, am Jewish, that you are also Jewish.”_

_From that day forward, John spent his days researching Judaism, researching places he could study so he could chase the religion he cared for and identified with. At last, he found a temple that was willing to give him a bar mitzvah… and Henry was furious. He kicked Elena out of the house, burned her Torah, and banned John and the others from ever speaking to her again…_

“What did I say about saying that word in my house?

_Since then, everything went downhill, and the entire Laurens family was close to falling apart, partially because of how differently each of his siblings took the situation._

_Mattie was nine at the time. She and John used to fight as kids, but when Elena was gone, she stepped up, knowing that she had to be the new mother of the house, keeping the peace and taking care of the younger kids._

_Junior was four, and he took it the hardest. He was right at the age where “But if Mommy were here” was a common phrase, and that never ended well. But Henry Laurens was clever. He saw an angry child and knew exactly how to use him. He immediately began treating Junior as his clear favorite, while quietly suggesting that it was John’s fault that Elena was gone. Within a year, Junior was the one who trotted behind Henry wherever he went, doing whatever his father asked and tattling every time his older siblings caused trouble. It wasn’t until Jemmy was old enough to be a suitable playfellow that he began to leave his father’s side and play more with his little brother, but still he harbored a deep resentment towards John that he couldn’t explain…_

“It’s not a word; it’s her name,” John retorted. “Her name is Elena.” He made a point of pronouncing it properly, slipping into his mother’s _—his—_ native accent for a split second. “Anyway, what were you saying about her?

_Jemmy was two, too young to understand what was going on, and Mary had only just been born. And yet they suffered Elena’s loss just as much as the others, for they constantly felt torn, unsure who to side with when Henry and John argued, when Mattie cried at night after having to talk with Henry in private, when Junior still occasionally ratted on the older two. They were torn in between loving their dad and loving Junior and loving Mattie and John…_

“She emailed me,” Henry repeated. “She wanted to see you. Of course, that is not going to happen. She may even try and reach out to you. You are not to write back. If you do, there will be severe consequences—for you and your siblings. Do you understand me?”

 _Fuck._ John would have emailed her anyway, but he should have known that Henry would punish his siblings as well. His hands trembled a little, but he nodded.

 _“Do you understand?”_ Henry repeated, softer, icier.

“Yes, Father,” John replied monotonously.

“Go back to the kitchen. Act as though nothing happened.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have a story to tell them?”

He hated joining his father in his lies, but if it meant that the kids would be safe, he would do it.

“I think so. Are you planning on going out today?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, I have a story.”

They walked back into the kitchen. “What happened?” Mary asked.

“Father was just telling me that he’s going out today, and that I’m in charge. He especially told me to ensure that no one watched too much television today.” He shot a pointed look at the boys.

“Father, may I go to play at a friend’s house?” Mary asked.

“Depends on the friend,” Henry replied coldly.

“Cassie?”

“Cassie O'Brien,” Mattie explained. “Lives over on the hill—”

“Ah, yes, Cassandra. She’s fine,” said Henry.

John had to keep himself from rolling his eyes. The O'Briens were a filthy-rich family who lived in a mansion far too big for a family of three, and the parents were stuck-up pigs, the sort of racist, classist bigots that Henry loved. As for Cassie herself, John thought her to be spoiled, but Mary liked her. Then again, Mary liked everyone.

“Yay! Thank you!”

“Don’t you eat too much junk food,” Henry warned. “You’re getting fat enough as it is. Speaking of which, Martha, what made you think it was wise to make pancakes for breakfast?”

“It’s the first Saturday of the month,” Mattie replied. “We usually have pancakes for breakfast.”

“Yes, but that was before Mary Eleanor started gaining all that weight.”

“She’s only five, Father,” Mattie said quietly. “She doesn’t need to hear all of that right now.”

“Stop arguing with me,” Henry snapped. “No more pancakes. End of story.” With that, he grabbed Mary’s plate and dumped her food into the garbage.

“Father!” Mattie shouted, standing up. She looked him square in the eye. “Father, that wasn’t necessary.”

“Martha, are you talking back to me?”

“No,” said Mattie. “I’m just talking. She’s only a child, Father. She’s too young to understand what you’re talking about.”

“Well, then perhaps she should learn,” Henry retorted. “And you’d do well not to hinder that.”

Mary, meanwhile, had started crying. “That was mean,” she sobbed. “Why’d you do that?”

“Sssh,” John murmured, pulling her into his lap.

“Stop crying!” Henry shouted, glaring at her. “Unless you don’t want to go to Cassandra’s.” Mary quickly wiped her tears and snuggled into John’s side. “That’s better.”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. John had to keep himself from putting Mary down and punching Henry in the face.

“Hmph. Well, I’m leaving. Goodbye.” With that, Henry got up and practically stormed out the door like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“Mattie, am I fat?” Mary asked sadly a few moments later.

“All little girls have a little bit of fat on them,” Mattie explained. “Same with little boys. When you get bigger it’ll go away. But that’s not the point. Mary, you are beautiful and perfect just the way you are. And we love you very much.”

Mary nodded and hopped off of John’s lap to hug Mattie, who smiled softly and lifted Mary up, cuddling her close.

Jemmy quietly got out of his seat and hugged Mattie’s leg. “Electricity hug, Emmy.”

“Electricity?” Mary asked.

“Yep, electricity hug,” said Mattie. “Jemmy can’t reach you, so he’s hugging me, and now magic hug electricity is going up, up, up my leg and all the way to you.”

“Oh.” Mary threw her arms around Mattie’s neck. “Electricity hug!”

Mattie tightened her grip around Mary. “Mmmm, lots of electricity hugs.”

“Mind if I join in?” John asked.

“Not at all! Come join the hugs!”

“GROUP HUG!” Mary shouted.

John scooped Jemmy up and walked over to Mary and Mattie, where he and Mattie joined arms to allow Jemmy and Mary to hug each other while not falling.

“Junior, come hug!” Mary begged.

Junior had been sitting in stock silence up to that point. As usual, he was the one who was in the middle—literally, as the middle child, but also figuratively, in the awful position as the one Henry doted upon the most. It was a terrible position for a nine-year-old and John hated that their father had put Junior there.

But this wasn’t something that Mary understood yet. To her, Junior was missing out on a hug.

“Pleeeeeeease,” she begged.

Slowly, Junior stood up and held onto Mattie.

“We should call it a cuddle puddle,” Mary declared. “That’s what this is. It’s a cuddle puddle.”

“I like that,” Mattie said quietly. “Now, let’s get you ready to go to Cassie’s.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay, cut the crap.”

John looked up from his phone, nearly finished with Alexander’s email, to see Mattie in the doorway. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Mattie replied, entering the room and shutting the door behind her. “We both know that Fartface wouldn’t pull you away from the table just to announce that he was leaving. He’d do that in front of all of us.”

She was right. It honestly was a terrible lie; he was surprised that “Fartface” (he couldn’t help but crack a smile) hadn’t sent him an angry text message already.

“Shit,” John muttered. “D’you think—”

“—that the kids noticed that you were bluffing? Probably not, and if they did, I can assure you, there’s no way in hell that they would guess what he actually told you. Honestly, I can’t really believe it either.”

“Wait, what?” John turned to her confusedly. “What do you mean, you can’t believe it?”

“I know what he told you,” Mattie explained.

“No you don’t,” John said quickly. “And I can’t tell you.”

“Wanna bet?” Mattie asked. She held out her phone to John.

John took the phone and almost dropped it.

 _From: Elena Barrio_ _11:07 PM (10 hours ago)_

_Hijita,_

_I’m writing to you before I write to your siblings, because I can trust you to keep quiet, and before I write to your father, because I can’t trust him not to._

_I want to see you—all of you. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen my own children. I don’t know how to make it happen, but I hope you can help me._

_I saw the bit in the paper about your dance team winning the state championships. I’m so proud of you._

_Te amo, mamita <3 _

“Fuck,” John muttered. “What was she thinking?”

“She’s a genius,” said Mattie. “She knows I’m able to help her in a way that you can’t, and no, you are not going to help me. I’m only telling you that she wrote to me so you don’t have to worry about keeping quiet. I will figure this out with her myself, okay?”

“Mattie—”

“—Trust me. Now, go back to reading whatever you were reading. I don’t know who sent it or what it says, but you seem positively ecstatic over it.” With that, she left the room.

John sighed and turned back to his laptop.

_These are, of course, only ideas, and while I am certain they are all feasible to some degree, I believe that it would be best if we met at some point to strategize. Are you available at any time this weekend?_

_Yrs,_

_A. Ham_

John nearly cheered out loud. He and Alexander were going to meet! (To strategize!)

Quickly, he typed an email back.

_Hey Alexander—_

_I’m free most of today. I might have to be home by 7ish for dinner, but I’ll see if I can get out of that if that’s what works best. Tomorrow I have church (ew) until like noon or something. I’ll be able to meet in the afternoon but then I do have to be home by 7._

_Thanks for writing back so quickly! I’m really excited to talk more about kicking the shit out of these asses :P_

_—John_

He shut his laptop and went over to his desk, pulling his sketchbook from the secret drawer. He was in the middle of a sketch of the view from his window and he was hoping to—

His phone buzzed.

“Shit,” he muttered out loud. That was probably his father, ready to yell at—

 ** _Gmail_** _now:_

_Alexander Hamilton_

_Re: Regarding Strauss-Nierenberg_

Grinning, he opened the email.

_Dear John,_

_If you’re on a schedule, let’s not delay. Shall we meet for lunch this afternoon?_

_A. Ham_

_P.S. My sister has informed me that this is, and I quote, “the reason you gave me your number.” Apparently, you are not supposed to send emails that are this short, but you are also not supposed to send emails that are long. She is now informing me that she does not understand this either, but it’s “just the way it is.” Either way, if you would rather we text, my number is 212-462-6922._

John couldn’t help himself—he punched the air.

_To 212-462-6922: Hey Alexander, it’s John. Lunch today sounds great._

_From 212-462-6922: Lovely! Does noon work for you?_

_To 212-462-6922: Depends on where we’re meeting. Preferably somewhere with cheap enough food that neither my father nor Jefferson would go near it._

_From 212-462-6922: Food truck? There’s a parking lot about a fifteen minute walk from Martha’s that usually has about twenty food trucks in it on Saturdays, and I think only five of them have given people food poisoning in the past._

_To 212-462-6922: Address?_

_From 212-462-6922: Parking lots don’t have addresses, John._

_To 212-462-6922: Sometimes they do!_

_From 212-462-6922: Well, it’s basically across the street from the CVS on Rodgers Street._

_To 212-462-6922: Oh! I know exactly where that is! That place has food trucks?_

_From 212-462-6922: You didn’t know that???_

_To 212-462-6922: Learn something new every day. Anyway, I can definitely get there. See you then!_

_From 212-462-6922: Excellent. Can’t wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, Lia here! Hope y’alls liked this chapter!  
> We’ve made it to a Major Lia Milestone™, people! Namely, the first reference drawn from a completely irrelevant source! (note: the first reference in this story; I’ve already made one of those in Rochambeau.) I actually don’t know how obvious it is because I tried to mask it. Hopefully it won’t… fall flat! ;)  
> Alright then, the next chapter will come soon, and it will feature… well, honestly, I’m not entirely sure yet. Confession time; here’s what I got: I’m playing this story way by ear. We’ll see how it goes!  
> As always, love and ducks to the Lone Shippers, hugs to supporters, shoutouts to the Power Squad and cookies for all! Bye guys!  
> Love,  
> Lia xxxxxx


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